The Shepeste Militia

It was a good day. The sun rose high and bright in the sky, but with enough clouds scattered across the blue to stave the harsh glare away. A cool breeze blew through the streets of Shepeste. Thorn used the opportunity to inspect the development of the Shepeste militia.

The militia was mustered in the guard's barracks as per the captain's orders. He had since diligently organised them. As she stepped into the grounds of the barracks, she could feel excitement and anxiety mixing in the air, electric, like the calm before a storm. The area was packed with new, fresh faces. Guards diligently trained them as a unit, barking orders, teaching them formations, meaneuvers, and discipline..

Inside the armoury, Thorn saw the logistics of war at work. The guards worked extra hard to meet the rising demands the steep increase of manpower brought. Weapons and armour were taken out of the armoury to be checked. Spears, axes, and daggers were sharpened and cleaned before being sent out to distribution.

The armoury had an impressive collection. The defences in Shepeste was never its lacking point. It was a hard lesson after the Old Hill. Even so, the armoury had difficulty keeping up, so the resourceful militia helped themselves. They marched into the barracks with pitchforks, scythes, and quarterstaffs. Thorn even saw a dozen sporting swords on their hips. A heirloom from the war, most likely. She can't imagine simple farmers and peddlers having the wealth to buy a sword.

Shepestian hunters living on the fringes of Shepeste left their forest camps to join the militia. Their fletchers worked day and night to create batches upon batches of arrows, designed not to fell beasts, but a man. The thought of the ultimate game seemed to excite them.

The sapper team was no less busy. They worked endlessly to create wooden stakes. Shepestian carpenters and loggers joined together, cutting logs to size with their axes. Then their knives worked quickly to sharpen them into shape. At the centre of the room was a calm fire. Finished stakes were buried in mounds of its white ash, heat treating them to dry out its moisture, strengthening the structure.

Thorn was surprised to find Rose among the sappers, seeming mighty out of place among the large men that were twice her size and thrice her age. What's more surprising was how nimbly she worked with the knife, putting the adults to shame. A pile of finished stakes sat neatly beside her, and in front of her was a great mound of wood shavings. She whistled a tune as her fingers worked quickly with the knife.

Rose said, "It's just like peeling potatoes, actually. A really, really long and pointy potato. Plus I could sneak a few logs off for firewood."

Thorn frowned at her, but Rose frowned back.

"Not all of us have your magic fire sand to keep us warm, Thorn."

Thorn continued wandering around the barracks and found herself in a quiet part. She was about to turn around and leave when she found someone sitting in one of the rooms, quiet and alone, his back turned towards her.

It was her father. He was staring at a sword in his hand, sheathed in a faded green leather sheath. He was silent, and there was an unexplainable look etched on his face.

Thorn knocked on the door and Jobb snapped his head up, as if he was awakened from a deep slumber.

"Oh, Thorn."

Thorn stared at the sword. "I haven't seen that in ages."

Jobb pulled the blade free. The blade rang as it was freed from its sheath. Jobb held it in front of him and it caught the sunlight seeping in through the window. It was a long two handed sword, but it seemed like a one handed sword when gripped by Jobb's thick hand. Its blade was wide in its width and had a stubby point, a sword meant to be swung to hack limbs.

He stared at the blade for a long time, and said, "The last time I watched my reflection through this blade I was but a young man."

He stood up and began practising some swings. He seemed stiff and clumsy, and the sword seemed unwieldy in his hand. But soon the muscle memory gradually returned and he entered into a flow. He moved his footing across the floor, trying various stances, and practised some cuts and thrusts.

He was sweating when he was finished, and a small smile was plastered on his face as he turned to Thorn. She replied in kind.

"Well, I think that's enough for today. Time to pack up and get back to the tavern."

He sheathed the blade back on his hip and turned his back on Thorn, and her smile died. Thorn saw a glimpse of a faraway memory, of her father's silhouette with a sword strapped on his hip leaving home, leaving a very young Thorn under the care of her pregnant mother, leaving for a war she didn't understand.